


Anthem of the Angels

by BWaves



Category: Homestuck
Genre: HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BWaves/pseuds/BWaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time you meet him you’re eight. You don’t know who he is, you don’t know what he’s doing in your apartment, you just know that he’s sitting on the counter, drinking coffee and there’s a half empty bottle of your brother’s favorite booze next to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anthem of the Angels

**Author's Note:**

> been sittin on this bad boy since december, but the thing i submitted it to rejected me today so here you go

The first time you meet him you’re eight. You don’t know who he is, you don’t know what he’s doing in your apartment, you just know that he’s sitting on the counter, drinking coffee and there’s a half empty bottle of your brother’s favorite booze next to him. Your brother, well, he’s nowhere to be found. It’s not unusual, though always a little disappointing.

His hands are shaking and his eyes are tired and you stand around the corner and watch him for what feels like forever before he finally notices you. You notice his eyes right away, just as you’re sure he notices yours. His are pretty, and it’s an odd thought, you think for a young man of eight, but you accept it. His eyes are pretty. He’s got dark bags under his eyes and his nose is bright red and he sniffles a lot, but the blue of his eyes is lovely.

He looks around, before finally looking back to you and lifting his hand in a tiny wave. You return the gesture, and soon enough slip out from behind the wall. You pour yourself some juice and join him on the counter when you’re sure he isn’t going to hurt you. He doesn’t say anything, so you don’t either. You’re sure he’ll talk when he’s ready.

You’re in the middle of wondering where your brother is when he asks your name, you tell him it’s Dave and ask what his is and he’s quiet for a moment before mumbling that his name is John.

“How old are you, Dave?” He asks, and you look up to see him smiling at you.

“Eight.”

“Really? You remind me of my little cousin. She’s turning ten this year.” He gives a little nod, but you think you see him get sadder.

“How old are you?”

“Oh… That’s not important.” his voice is hardly a mumble, were you not so close you probably wouldn’t have heard him, but you know what he said.

“Yes it is.” You say, matter of fact, “I told you how old I am you have to tell me how old you are.” You nodded, proud of yourself.

“I’m fifteen.” He finally answers, and nods a little himself, “Just a few years older than you.” He adds, and his eyes are in his drink, he stares at it until Bro comes through the front door.

He doesn’t mind you sitting with John, though Bro calls him ‘boo’. You don’t get it, so you ask and he says it’s because he’s pale as a ghost and John smiles and laughs like he’s pretending and you never ever knew hearing someone laugh could make your heart hurt so much.

John’s a common visitor. He sits and drinks coffee while you drink juice in the mornings before school and he talks to you about nothing until Bro is shooing you off and pulling John out of the kitchen.

A few days in you ask John if he’s Bro’s boyfriend and John doesn’t answer. You figure he just doesn’t want to tell you about it yet, and you finish your juice and head out the door when Bro tells you it’s time to go to school.

You give it a few days before you ask again, if him and Bro are boyfriends, and John spends a really long time thinking about his answer.

“Sometimes your brother just needs someone to let all his feelings out to and that’s me. We’re not dating. We just talk a lot, and it’s my job to listen.”

You accept it, you nod a little and you tell him that’s really cool and you ask him if you can do that when you get older and John just says no. He doesn’t answer when you ask why, he just says no.

You don’t get an answer ever, a few months later John stops coming home with your brother at night and he stops sitting on the counter with you. You honestly start to miss him, but as time passes, he fades, until you start to get older and start to learn more and more about the world.

It’s sometime when you’re thirteen when it finally sinks into your brain what John is, or was. You think back on it and you start to recognize things on him, the hickeys, the track marks, the cuts that covered his arms some days… You wonder if he was really only fifteen.

You ask Bro about him, but he pretends not to know what you’re talking about. You do a lot of searches on the internet but you can’t find him anywhere on any single site and you figure that’s the point. You spend a couple of months obsessing over it, but over time he fades again.

You’re eighteen soon enough, John is just a mere passing thought when you see someone who looks like him, or when you watch a crime show and someone’s killing hookers, you always find yourself wondering if that’s why John stopped coming around, but the next episode manages to distract you enough to push the thought away.

You’re grown up and you’re old enough to move out. Nowhere nice, not even with the two jobs you manage to get, so you end up in a really shitty neighborhood in a cheap two-bedroom because the two-bedroom was an even better deal than the single. There’s a building up the street that your neighbor calls ‘the place where strippers go to die’ and you try to laugh about it, but it makes you think about John again.

On a certain level you know it’s weird, you shouldn’t be so worried about this hooker Bro banged for a couple months when you were a kid, and yet he sticks around in your head. He’s set up his own cozy little space there and it isn’t until you mentally start filling the spare bedroom with his imaginary furniture that you fully realize you need to find him.

So you start keeping an eye out, you sit on your balcony late at night and you watch the people passing underneath with a slight hope he’ll just happen to be there. It screws your sleeping up pretty bad, but you wanna say it’s worth it. You start buying cheap little bits of bedroom furniture for the spare room. Even if you never find him, maybe you could rent it out or something.

It takes a couple months but eventually the room looks liveable. Nothing matches, the bed frame is black, the desk is white, the night-stand is painted blue, the hangers in the closet are everything from wire to plastic to the metal ones with the clips on them. There’s a little chair for the desk and you even got a little stand to put a television on and you find yourself standing outside of it every day before you go to work determined to have it filled when you come home.

Time passes, and slowly more things are added.

You find a cheap movie poster at a garage sale and hang it on the wall, a really cool painting from an art show catches your eye and soon enough it’s up there too. You eventually buy a television, later on a cheap computer, and you’re twenty before you know it, still living alone in the same two-bedroom.

You start growing flowers on the balcony so you have something nice to look at when you watch for him. You lean on the railing with a cup of coffee or some soda and you people watch. There’s one time you think you see him, but after a moment and a change of angle you realize it’s a girl.

By the time you’re twenty-one you’ve managed to move up in your work, you’re finally making enough with one to quit the other and still live in the same apartment. You get into writing, you’ve always had the habit of thinking of stories when you were bored and sitting on the balcony gave you plenty of time to think.

You scribble away and fill up notebook after notebook. At twenty-two you finally decide to pursue it, a writing career, you’re not sure what you’re interested in exactly, but a lot of what you come across calls for college education you don’t have, so you do a bit of research and by March you’re in classes with hopes of becoming a director.

Between school and work, you run out of time for people-watching and decide that it mustn’t be meant to happen. If you were supposed to meet up with him again, you feel it would’ve happened by now.

At twenty-five you get offered a job, nothing extravagant, editing something local, but you accept it, it’ll give you experience you need. It’s close enough you can walk and you find that you really enjoy that. So you walk to and from work every day, at first working mornings, then nights, and then you’re put in charge of closing the place, locking everything up at night.

One such night you’ve locked up the doors and you’re heading home when you see them, a small group, a bunch of scantily clad girls and boys and you find yourself stilling, staring at them in the alley. They notice, really quick of course. You’re almost frozen in place as one of the girls calls out to you, promises a good time, says she’s cheap ‘unlike the rest of these bitches’ and you’re just staring at one of the guys.

He’s slight, his shoulders are hunched and he’s looking away, but you have a feeling, just this knot in your stomach, so you approach, your eyes darting around because the last thing you want is the cops to come around when you’re not even planning on buying.

You get up to the group and they spread out a bit, they’re all eyeing you like you’re meat but you’re focused on him. His eyes are trained down and he’s shaking and one of the girls gives him a hard nudge with her elbow, tells him he’s got a customer. You hate being called that, but it gets him to look up.

He’s so… Close. He’s just close, his hair is the same black mess and he’s just as pale but his eyes are green and your heart sinks when you see them. You don’t want him, you want John. You’re so stupid to think it would be him, why would it be him? What are the odds of that one-in-a-nonexistent-number-that’s-really-fucking-big?

You’re not sure what possesses your body, but you end up crying. Like, full on sobbing in front of this group of prostitutes who immediately lose interest in you.

They share some words and they all scurry off but you’re just stuck, standing there and crying about some dude your brother paid for seventeen years ago. You’re not sure how long it is, but he comes back, the little one with the green eyes, he comes back and he tells you that you should go home because it’s not safe out here at night and you start babbling about how it’s lonely and you need to find him and the guy just shakes his head and asks who you’re even talking about.

You tell him it doesn’t matter, he’s probably dead anyways and the guy shakes his head a little and puts a hand on your arm, tells you that if you’re looking for someone like him, a sex worker, then who better to ask than a sex worker, right? He manages to calm you down a bit, and you ask if he knows John.

He gives his head a quick shake, explains that none of them know each other’s real names, but if you know John’s stage name or whatever he calls it, he might be able to help better, and all you can come up with is “My brother called him Boo because he was pale as a ghost.”

You recite it and hate yourself, you never called him that, only Bro called him that, but the kid’s face seems to light up, like he knows who you’re talking about. He smiles a little, but then it falls, and he looks down, looks like he’s thinking and your heart sinks lower as he shakes his head. “No one’s seen him in a few months.”

A few months. Just a few months. You nod a little bit, just a hint calmer now, but your eyes still hurt, you tell the green eyed boy to pass a message on if he sees John, a simple “Dave’s looking for you.” and you tell him to point John in the direction of your building, you’ll be outside at some point during the night and you’ll watch for him.

The kid nods a little bit, and quickly hurries away. You go home, you’re very tired. You sleep heavily that night, and call in sick the next day, you sit on your balcony, and you wait.

You stay off a few days, but eventually you have to get back to work, because the shitty two-bedroom won’t pay for itself. Every day when you get off, you come home, you do a quick clean up of the apartment, and then sit on the balcony, watching into the late hours, hoping he’ll come by.

It’s December, you’re turning twenty-six, and it has been four months since you told the green eyed boy to pass on the message if he ever saw John. You got your birthday off, because your manager loves you, and you’re sitting on your balcony wrapped in blankets, watching the streets. You watch people pass by, and the lady next door comes out to bring in her flowers when she sees you out there and offers you something hot to drink. You don’t look at her, too busy making sure, you have to make sure, you just raise your coffee mug, and she leaves without another word.

People turn the corner onto the street, walk along and turn into a building, or they turn at the next corner, out of sight. You watch each carefully, especially anyone with short black hair. None of them stop at your building though. Your eyes are heavy, sore and tired from the cold and you know you’re gonna make yourself sick like this, your friend Rose across the hall tells you all the time.

One person who turns onto your street catches your eye immediately. He’s not wearing much, certainly nothing appropriate for the weather, a thin sweater and a pair of jeans, not even a hat, his nose is so bright you can see it from three stories up. He walks down the street, glancing up at your building and you stand up slowly, watching him, trying to be fairly discreet about it. A loud creak of the railing has his eyes snapping up to you, and you can’t tell for sure, but they definitely look blue. He backs up a bit, watching you, you watch him look over the side of the building before he steps up to the door, disappearing from your line of sight. It’s quiet, and you can’t take the risk if it’s him, he can’t survive out there, not dressed like that.

You nearly fall out of your chair as you scramble to get back inside, you run through your apartment and down the stairs, through the glass on the front door you can see him huddled up there, rubbing his face and huffing hot air into his hands, and the closer you get the more sure you are. He’s older now, if you’re math is right he’s got to be like thirty-three, but he doesn’t look that much older. You don’t know what to blame for that. He doesn’t look any better either, so you throw open the door and watch him as he flinches back, you take a deep breath of the cold air and you say his name and his eyes widen just a bit.

“It’s really you.” is all he says in response, pushing himself up the wall, wobbly on his feet as he leans back against it, “Whatever would you want with my sorry ass?” He asks with a dry laugh like he’s been in the cold far too long and you’re sure he has.

You just shake your head, you don’t know how to explain it just yet, you just hold out your hands, and tell him to come inside, you’ll beg if you have to. He stares at you, and telling seems to be all you need because he comes in and he follows you up the stairs and into your apartment where you put him on the couch and you throw as many blankets as you can get your hands on over him, you’ve accumulated a lot over the years, between sales and urges and ‘oh this one is so soft’ and furnishing John’s room… Gosh. John’s room. He already has a place here and he doesn’t even know it.

You bring him some coffee and he drinks it gratefully, you hold his shaking hands in an attempt to warm them and offer him a shower, offer him clothes, you stare at his eyes, just a beautiful as they were when he was a teenager and you finally, finally feel like you’ve done something with your life when he thanks you and hugs you.

You have trouble trying to explain to him why you’ve been so determined to find him, and he just shushes you and hugs you and he runs his cold, thin fingers through your hair until you calm down enough to breathe again. He asks when you figured it out and he ends up just being glad you realized it after he was gone.

He doesn’t tell you where he’s been, he says that you’re not ready for it yet, despite your insistence. You offer him the room and he accepts, he questions it and you have trouble explaining again, this time the fully furnished room, all ready and waiting for him whenever he wanted it. You just tell him that you’ve thought of him a lot, and that he’s welcome to stay as long as he needs, or likes, you tell him he can live in this room, he can have his own space, his own bathroom his own closet, everything and he doesn’t owe you a cent.

He thanks you, he hugs you, and he sniffles and rubs his nose with the back of his hand as he sits on the bed and tells you he’s not that much fun to live with. You insist you don’t care, and you sit next to him and point out all of the things in the room, all bought so he could use them. The television and the computer, the alarm clock and the book shelf and the hangers in the closet that you’ve been collecting over the years of clothes shopping. You don’t know when it started, but soon enough you feel the worn sleeve of John’s sweater swiping across your cheek, and he’s laughing at you, he teases you and says that if he knew you’d treat him so good he’d never have slept with your brother and it just makes the tears worse.

You’re just happy he’s back. You missed him. You missed drinking juice with him in the mornings and you know he was never meant to become so important to you, but you had gotten so attached. John just smiles and nods, and wipes your cheeks as you try to explain yourself, try to make it sound less completely insane what you’ve done. You fail, for the most part, but John never calls you crazy, when you’re done he says that it’s really nice what you’ve done for him.

It takes a long time to adjust, for the first couple of weeks John will disappear at night and you’ll find yourself worried sick until he gets home, battered and sore and with extra money in his pockets and you have to tell him over and over again that he doesn’t have to do that anymore, he doesn’t have to work anymore. It takes a couple of tries but eventually he seems to give in. He tells you he gets bored and you just sigh at him and teach him how to take care of all the plants in the apartment, you give him stuff to do and it fixes it, he stops sneaking out.

It’s a couple months in the first time he climbs in bed with you, it’s the middle of the night and you’re hardly able to catch a wink when he slips into your room and quietly asks if he can sleep with you. He crawls under the covers and you’re taken aback by just how much smaller he is than you, it’s kind of weird, and you mumble that to him as he shoves his way into your arms and hugs you. You get a nice pinch in the side for that comment but it settles down quickly after that and you find that you sleep amazingly well with him your arms.

You’re not sure where it’s going to go from here, you think he’s sicker than he lets on sometimes, but you don’t know how to ask and he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. You’re gonna have to work on talking to him a bit more, you don’t doubt he’s had hiding things beaten into him, you can’t imagine what he’s probably been through in his life, but you hope that you can get him to open up about it eventually. You just want to make sure he’s safe.

In the morning you wake up alone, you rub your face and you roll out of bed and you head out of your room right away, you want to make sure he didn’t go anywhere, you want to keep him safe, but he’s just in the kitchen, perched on the counter with a cup of coffee, eyes tired and hands shaking for reasons you don’t think you’ll ever know. You shuffle across the room to him and give him a smile, he picks up a glass of juice from a spot on the counter next to him and offers it to you, then pats the counter once you’ve taken it. You hop up and sit next to him, and he rests his head on your shoulder as he talks about nothing with you.

The routine sinks in quickly, John wakes up before you do every morning, and he’s got a cup ready for you when you finally wake up, he learns how you take it, and he makes it perfect every time. You give him a list of random stuff to do every morning, which can range anywhere from ‘turn the television on four times’ to ‘read the entire Wikipedia article on chopsticks’, but the point is to keep John occupied, and you come home with him spouting off random little facts about random things like mouse-pads and soda cans at you.

It’s nice, honestly, you love listening to him get excited about knowing something new, and you feel your heart aching just a bit when you think about the fact that he probably didn’t go to school. You’re curious what happened to him, what got him here, but you don’t ask, you just make dinner and listen to him go on and on about what you made him watch on Netflix that day or what he saw when he went for a walk.

One day you leave him some money, you give him a grocery list for dinner and make that one of his tasks for the day, and you leave him some extra money in case he wants to pick up some candy or some chips or a soda or whatever he wants. You make sure to write that on the list too. When you get home that night he’s holding onto a bag of chips and he’s waiting for you, you ask why he didn’t eat the chips, they’re his to do with as he pleases and he tells you he just felt like he needed permission.

It’s another one of those heart sinking moment where you remember what he’s been through, you remember that this is normal for him, so you sit next to him and tell him that he’s a grown man, he doesn’t need your permission to do things. You nod and poke the crinkly chip bag and he opens it without question.

“Have you been eating at all while I’m at work?” You ask and he just stares into his chips, he pulls out a couple and munches on them, but he makes a point of not answering, and you remember that him not answering is not a good thing. “John you don’t have to get my permission to eat.” His eyes stay down, and he mumbles a little apology, he tells you it’s a force of habit and you just shake your head, lean over and kiss his forehead, you tell him again he doesn’t need your permission, and he just nods slowly.

You make dinner and you eat with him in the living room while you watch something stupid on TV and that night he sleeps with you again, he makes a point of getting nice and close and he shakes until he falls asleep and even then every now and then he lets out a little tremor and you’re very worried about him.

You do, eventually, manage to fall asleep, but only for a few hours, you’re roused when you feel John waking up, he’s shaking still and when he gets up on his elbows he starts coughing, you sit up and you rub his back and you make sure he’s okay before leaving to get him water. He sits on the edge of the bed and drinks it slowly, coughing in between swigs of water until he’s finished it off.

He breathes heavily, you press a hand to his forehead and frown at how hot it is, you carry him to his room and lay him down, set him up with some medicine, and some soup, you move your xBox to his room so he can watch Netflix and you make sure he’s okay. You take the day off to take care of him, and your boss understands.

He doesn’t really get better, but he does seem to get happier, you hang out and watch shows with him and you get him to laugh a few times when you make a shitty joke. You bring him plenty of water and food and he falls asleep leaning on your shoulder until you head back to your room. The third day you go back to work, you tell John where everything is and you tell him not to hurt himself doing anything, and he just smiles and nods along until you finally have to leave.

When you get home he’s passed out on the couch, you make yourself some dinner and you sit on the floor by him and make sure he’s still breathing, he wakes up when your hand touches his shoulder and he smiles sleepily at you, he reaches out and he brushes his fingers through your hair and he just smiles so sweetly at you.

He asks how work was and you tell him about how you got to write your own piece and he insists that you bring him a copy of the paper when it prints. He uses the word ‘proud’ a lot, and he hugs you and he makes you sit with him and watch more shitty television.

He sleeps in your bed and he tosses and turns all night, you do your best to settle him but he doesn’t stay still for long. It’s hard for you to get to sleep, but you manage to, and when you wake up in the morning he’s sat up on the edge, shaking and sweaty and he’s breathing hard and you don’t know how to help him.

You hug him and you get him water, you help him walk when his legs refuse to cooperate, and you get him to the couch where he can sit and watch television. You sit down by him and you call your doctor, but you’re only halfway through explaining what’s wrong when John practically smacks the phone out of your hand and tells you you not to do that, never to do that, he’s even glaring at you when you pick the phone back up and end the call.

He snatches it from your hand and holds it close to his chest and he shakes his head as he tells you he’s fine, insists he’s fine.

He’s not. You know he’s not, and he knows he’s not, but he insists it, he holds onto your phone until you promise not to make the call. He hands it back, and then you put it on the coffee table. He puts his arms around you and holds you tightly as you watch television with him.

He goes back to sleeping in his own room, and he finally starts getting better after a couple of days, he makes coffee in the mornings and he makes it perfect, he talks to you for a while and he offers to make breakfast if he can stay standing long enough.

You make sure to stand by while he makes eggs, just in case, but he doesn’t end up needing your help and you eat with him and talk and he makes jokes about the show you put on the TV.

You’re happy. You’re very happy, and he’s so much happier than he seemed to be before, and he’s getting better, however slow it is.

In April it’s his birthday, you drag him out to dinner and you get him a piece of cake from the store and he laughs at you when he gets the icing on his finger and smears it across your face. He sleeps in your room that night, he holds you tightly under the blankets and when you wake up you’re alone again. He’s in the kitchen, perched on the counter drinking coffee and he smiles at you when you come out of your room, rubbing your eyes as you sit next to him.

Every now and then John will climb into your bed and sleep with you but most nights he sleeps in his own room. You don’t mind it, whatever makes him comfortable, he told you it was because he didn’t have his own room before, he’s never had his own room. He shared one with his cousin Jane when he was a kid, and then… Well, when he ended up on the streets, he shared a room with quite a few other kids his age, and when he wasn’t in that room he was with someone like your brother. So you don’t complain at all when he stays in his bedroom.

John’s health fluctuates, he gets fevers a lot, and some days he can’t stand at all, he gets some days where he can’t make sense of anything, or where he’s just too, too tired to move. His memory gradually gets worse and he loses weight so fast you can’t stand it. It’s like he’s withering away and you’re scared.

You take care of him as well as you can, and sometimes he gets better, he gets really good, and he starts telling you random facts about matches or colored pencils.

He’s really good one morning, he makes coffee and he waits for you and he smiles and laughs and he tells you about his dreams as you listen and drink. You make breakfast and he tells you about what he’s going to do that day, says he’s going to clean the whole apartment, claims he’s going to organize everything, he bounces on his toes and says he’s ‘just full of so much energy’.

You’re happy. You like it when he feels good. You love it when he feels good. You get ready for work and you hug him and he grins at you and tells you to have a good day. You squeeze him extra tight and do your usual walk.

On the way home you see that group again, the one with the green eyes and the other girls, and you find yourself waving. They whistle at you and they call out vulgar things, but none of them approach and you keep on going. You reach your door and walk in to find John already making dinner, he stops when you come through the door and abandons it to give you a quick hug.

He’s never actually made food for you, not yet at least, and you’re honestly excited to try it, it’s simple, just some spaghetti but John goes on and on about some recipe his dad used to use for the sauce and you just nod along as he talks and you eat it so fast you make your stomach hurt, but it’s just so good. You tell him so, you praise his cooking for the rest of the night.

When it’s time to go to sleep he gives you a really long hug, you hold him for as long as he needs before you tell him to go to sleep, get some rest, and maybe you two can go do something in the morning, there’s a June seasonal farmers market you’ve been interested in checking out. John just nods along and gives you another quick hug before heading for his room. You make sure all the lights are out, and then go to bed.

In the morning you wake up at your usual time, you stretch and groan in your bed before rolling out of it, heading for the door, you don’t smell coffee and it kind of throws you off, but maybe John just felt like sleeping in, you can’t blame him for that, he always wakes up so early.

You make the coffee, you make his how you’ve seen him do it a couple of times and pray you did it right, you set it on the counter where he usually sits and you take your own place, sit down, drink your coffee. You sip it slowly, wanting to still be there when he comes out. Normally you drink it so fast because you want to be done by the time he is, but this morning the tables have turned, and you glance over to his door once in awhile to see if he’s coming and you haven’t heard yet. Your coffee doesn’t taste quite the same.

You finish your drink, setting down with a hard click of the ceramic against the formica, and slip off the counter. You whip up some breakfast, dole out two plates, and leave them in the kitchen, heading for John’s door. You give a gentle knock, but there’s no answer, you call out that breakfast is ready whenever he feels like getting up, and you go gather your own plate, settling into the living room for Netflix and eggs.

You finish up, pass John’s door on the way to the kitchen and set your plate in the sink, John’s remains untouched, and you look over one more time before taking it and snagging some of the now cold eggs for yourself. You dump his coffee, watching it swirl around in the sink before going down the drain. You figure that when he wakes up you can make it fresh for him. You clean up what little mess you made in the kitchen before heading back to the living room. You give it one more episode of your show before you look to his door again, you listen.

The apartment is quiet. Your laptop hums away on the coffee table, and the air conditioner makes its own noise, but other than that it’s quiet. No neighbors through the walls. No movement from John’s room. Not even the shower is running. You sigh a little. He might just be sick again. He tends to sleep a lot when he gets sick, and it’s been a really good run, so you suppose it’s about time.

Two more episodes and soon enough it’s time for lunch. You pass his door again, glancing to it on your way to the kitchen. It looks cracked open, at least you don’t have to worry about it being locked or anything. You call out that you’re making lunch, and you think you hear something, but you’re not sure. You don’t investigate though and just head for the kitchen, get a pot and a pan, and gather up what you need.

For John, soup, you keep a lot more of it around since he gets sick so much. For yourself, you make a grilled cheese sandwich, you even make one for John, if he’s feeling up to it. You stand in the kitchen and watch the time on the microwave. You listen to your sandwich sizzle as John’s soup starts to boil, and you decide to split the soup in half, you could probably use some too. You look back to John’s door, then back to the plate in front of you, a little bowl of soup in the middle, half of a grilled cheese sandwich on either side, it looks really nice, you think and gather them, one in each hand, and head for John’s door.

“Lunch is ready.” You say first, and then give the door a gentle knock with your foot. You frown a bit when he doesn’t answer, and you nudge it open with your hip, John’s still in bed, covers up to his eyes and curled up on his side. “Come on, dude, I get it if you’re sick but you gotta get up. I made lunch and everything.” You say, putting on a fake little whine as you cross to the desk and set the plates down.

The silence is your only answer, and you stand up straight again, turn to look at him and sigh, “John?” You say softly, and step up to the side of his bed, perch yourself on the edge and touch his shoulder through the blanket. “You okay?” You ask, but there’s a really bad feeling in your stomach. You tug the blanket down to get a better look at his face, and you touch his forehead. It’s freezing. He’s cold. Your eyebrows draw down, and you open your mouth, but no words come, you stand up again, you back into his desk and stare at him. He’s not moving. He’s not breathing.

You say his name again, but your voice shakes, it cracks and you know he’s not going to answer you. Your chest hurts, you grab the front of your shirt like it’ll make it stop. You know it won’t help, he’s not going to smile at you. He’s not going to point and laugh at you for falling for his prank. He’s not going to open up his beautiful blue eyes and look at you.

**Author's Note:**

> comments give me life please


End file.
